“Brentford?” said Omally.

“Our Brentford?” said Jim.

And then they, too, began to laugh.

“That’s it,” said Neville, “rub salt into my wounds. Rub my face into the dirt. Rub me down with creosote and sell me on to the circus.”

“I’m sorry,” said Jim, between guffawings, “but come on, Neville. Brentford United win the FA Cup?”

“They do have until the end of the season. Shufty agreed that the Consortium would allow the team to play the entire season before the ground was torn down. I had him write that on, too.”

“You were certainly on a roll.” Omally clutched at his stomach and did rollings about of his own.

“Stop it,” cried Neville. “It isn’t funny.”

“No.” Jim fought with hilarity. “It isn’t funny, Neville. You really did do your best. But Brentford win the FA Cup?” And Jim fell once more into mirth.

“You rotten lot,” said Neville, turning away to seek more Scotch. “I won’t bother to ask you now.”

Jim raised a head from his chucklings. “Ask what?” he asked.

“Whether you knew of anyone. I was going to, but I shan’t now.”

“What are you on about, Neville?” said John.

“The manager’s job.”

“What, for here? Are you going to quit and run before the tarring and feathering starts?”

“Not for here. And I’m not the manager here, as you know full well. Not that I’ve ever actually met the manager. I meant for the club. The manager of Brentford United quit last week. He absconded with the takings from the club’s bar.”

“I never knew that,” said John.

“Well, I did and Gavin Shufty did. And Shufty, who was laughing just like you are, even said that I could appoint a new manager for the team’s final season. I was going to ask whether any of you might know of someone who—”

“Could take on the job and take the club on to win the FA Cup?” Old Pete all but wet himself with further laughter.

“But I won’t now,” said Neville, tossing back more Scotch than was strictly good for him.

“Hold on there,” said Omally. “Let us all slow down and think here for a moment.”

“Forget it,” said Neville. “I’m not offering the job to you.”

“Not me.” John shook his curly-haired head. “But possibly someone. Surely I’ve read of eccentric millionaire pop star types who buy up failing football clubs and lead the teams to glory. Wasn’t there that fat pianist who wears the improbable wigs?”

“Ben Elton,” said Jim.

“Not Ben Elton, you buffoon,” said Old Pete. “He was the bloke with the beard on the Treasure Island.”

“That was Ben Gunn,” said Omally.

“So which club did he buy?” Old Pete scratched at his flat cap.

“He didn’t buy any club, Pete, he just rolled his eyes about. Had a great deal of hair, if I recall correctly.”

“I thought you said he wore a wig.”

“Bing Crosby wore a wig,” said Jim, “but I don’t think he ever played the piano.”

“Liberace played the piano,” said Old Pete, “and I’m pretty sure that he wore a wig. He was a poof, of course – do you think it’s the same fellow?”

“Bound to be,” said Jim. “How many wig-wearing poofs do you know who can play the piano and buy football clubs?”

Old Pete counted on his fingers. “Three,” said he. “So, do we call in this Liberace to save Brentford or what?”

Neville made groaning sounds and buried his face in his hands once more.

Omally took to grinning. “You know what,” he said, “there might be a way.”

“To save the club?” said Neville. “I’ve had quite enough for one day. Enough for one lifetime, in fact.”

“It might just be possible,” said John.

“Do you know the Liberace chap, then, John?” Jim asked.

“No,” said John, “I don’t. Forget about Liberace. Strike Liberace from your mind.”

Jim did so. “That’s a relief,” he said.

“What I’m saying,” said John, “is that it might be possible to save the club. It might actually be possible for Brentford, under the right management, to win the FA Cup.”

“And you know how?” Neville asked.

“No,” said Omally, “but I know of a man who will.”

Professor Slocombe dwelt in a large and stately Georgian house upon Brentford’s historic Butts Estate. The Estate proper consisted of a broad tree-lined thoroughfare bordered by proud habitations of the Regency persuasion, which led to The Butts itself, a square acre of land once reserved for the statutory Sunday afternoon longbow practice in those long-ago days known as “yore”. Here stood The Seaman’s Mission, a hostel run by that charitable foundation to provide temporary accommodation for seafaring types who were down upon their luck. And many more splendid houses.

The wealthy burghers of Brentford who had ordered the construction of these wonderful buildings had attained their golden guineas through seaborne commerce: the import of spices and tea and opium and slaves. During these times, Brentford had been a prosperous community and upon May Monday The Butts had played host to the Bull Fair.[6]

Prosperity had left Brentford behind and the old rich had long departed. Rich folk still lived in The Butts, mainly outborough business types who earned their wealth in manners unfathomable to the plain people of Brentford, to whom they remained a great unknown.

There was much of the great unknown about Professor Slocombe. His origins were mysterious and it was somehow assumed that, like the mighty Thames which cradled Brentford in a loving elbow, he had always been there. Certainly Old Pete, one of the borough’s most notable elders, swore blind and with vigour that he had known the professor since he, Old Pete, had been a small child, at which time this enigmatic fellow was already a very old man.

What was known about Professor Slocombe was that he was a scholar of many esoteric schools, possessed of knowledge and wisdom to equal degree. That he inspired a frisson of fear was not at all surprising, but he was a kindly man and those who sought his advice or counsel were never refused or turned away.

The professor was attended by a decrepit retainer named Gammon, a fellow who rarely left the professor’s house and who dressed in the servant’s livery of a time two hundred years before.

On this particular morning, Professor Slocombe sat in his study doing what ancient scholars so often do – poring over equally ancient tomes. His old, bowed back was towards the open French windows, through which drifted the heady fragrances of the gorgeous orchids that bloomed all year round in his garden, in seeming defiance of the accepted laws of nature. The perfumes of verbena and cymbidium and Yggdrasil entered the room, blending with the fusty, musty odours of the countless leather-bound volumes overflowing from the ancient bookcases that hid the walls. And other odours, too, odours subtle and without name, issued from the many stuffed beasts, some of which were certainly mythical, and the multifarious curiosa that loaded every horizontal surface in the room. Treasures glittered within glass domes – centuries-old weaponry and da Vinciesque models, meteorites and gemstones, fossilised fairies and withered Hands of Glory; elaborate preparations wrought by Frederik Ruysch, composed of foetal skeletons arranged in allegorical tableaux; beard clippings from the Magi, Caspar, Melchior and Balthazar; a pickled homunculus; and a complete set of The Beano.

The professor was slim and slight with wild white hair and pale-blue eyes that veritably twinkled behind his golden pince-nez. He was sprightly and vital and should an actor have been chosen to play him, that actor would surely have been Peter Cushing.

Professor Slocombe turned one velum page and then another and then he closed his tome and sat back in his padded leather chair and spoke.